My day unfurls like a reluctant blossom, beginning with the jarring symphony of the alarm. My eyes flutter open, revealing a world shrouded in foggy clouds that weave through the city's skyscrapers. As my eyelids reluctantly part ways, I catch a glimpse of the sun, a mere whisper of yellow through the mist outside my window. I sigh, a somber acknowledgment of the new day that has infiltrated the cocoon of my dreams.
Swinging my legs over the bed's edge, I encounter the cold floor, an icy touch that sends a shiver racing up my spine. My routine unfolds with an almost robotic precision, a choreography born from the necessity of preparing for the demands of an ungrateful society. The bed, an aging companion, emits a tired creak as my weary bones make their daily descent, and I slip into the embrace of soft slippers.
A sudden realization jolts me — the urgent call of nature. Panic sets in, a chill swirling through the lower depths of my stomach. "Toilet," I mutter to myself as I stumble towards the bathroom.
The real ritual commences within those walls. The shower springs to life, water pelting my back like an intense storm. The cold assault is unwelcome, every drop a reminder of the challenges awaiting me. I stare aimlessly at the floor, initially unmoving, as the drowsiness clinging to my skin begins to relent.
Abruptly, the water ceases its assault with a single twist of my hand. I lethargically grab a towel, wrapping it around my dripping skin. Despite the water cascading down my face, fatigue still clings to me. I mutter, "I need a coffee," my words slurred with the weight of the morning.
A brief rendezvous with the mirror follows, my reflection a canvas of exhaustion. Dark blotches under my eyes, unkempt stubble on my cheeks, and hair in a state of disarray — a living testament to the toll of an overworked existence.
In the kitchen, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee hangs like a comforting promise, an addictive scent promising to jolt my sluggish mind awake. The percolator signals the culmination of its work, and I pour a steaming cup, the warmth seeping into my fingers like a lifeline.
As I sip the coffee, I steal a glance at the calendar on the wall, a mosaic of deadlines and appointments. My mind hurdles forward, anticipating the challenges and faces awaiting me at the office. The radio hums softly, a backdrop of news and weather updates forming the soundtrack to my morning ritual.
Draped in the cloth of my work attire, I inspect myself in the hallway mirror once more. The reflection stares back, a mix of determination and weariness etched on my face. Bag slung over my shoulder, its weight a tangible reminder of the responsibilities awaiting my attention, I clicked the door shut behind me, stepping into the crisp morning air.
The world outside stirs to life — a symphony of yapping roadrage, distant traffic, and the muted hum of the city. I merge into the stream of people on the sidewalk, each lost in their thoughts, their individual preoccupations.
A frown forms on my face as another day on the job becomes closer than ever. This entire process is essentially worthless; no matter how many hours I work or the amount of effort I put into maintaining my image, the dream I have to enjoy life peacefully will never truly get closer. During my later years, I might have the chance to retire and lead a life mirroring my aspirations, yet reclaiming the time consumed by my job will forever remain beyond my grasp. It's not worth it, but in order to live even another day I'll need the money to keep going.
Yet, in the recesses of my mind, there exists an abstract version of myself, a Jinmeiyo Ken, where this routine, seemingly mundane, feels strangely profitable. An illusion I once entertained, a placebo effect that convinced me each working week was a step closer to something worth the time spent. However, without that motivation, I am no real entity, just a robot programmed to simulate normalcy, another cog in the vast machinery of the Japanese economy. A mirage of free will, a phantom navigating the rituals of a life that I'm simply not there to live.
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The office pulses with the rhythm of productivity – ringing phones, tapping keyboards, and hushed conversations creating a symphony of corporate hustle. Overhead, the fluorescent lights cast an unforgiving glow on the cubicle landscape, each tiny workspace a universe of organized chaos, papers and sticky notes fluttering with purpose.
Seated in the ergonomic embrace of my chair, I navigate the digital terrain as my computer screen flickers to life with the whir of an old-fashioned fan. A yawn escapes, a testament to the lingering drowsiness of the morning, as I dive into the routine of sorting through emails and documents.
I'm an accountant at a small business corporation. We prepare and examine financial records, identify potential areas of opportunity and risk, and provide solutions for businesses and individuals. Pretty simple business, huh? That would be the case if not for a very small difference in the latest changes in the country's economy.
"The latest updates within the Shibuya Incident are jaw-dropping." My eyes widen a bit with a shred of interest as I scroll through a news clip sent out to all employees through email. "We have confirmation from the government about the latest information becoming available to the public. The reports all over social media about the "Monsters" are all true. These creatures, seemingly invisible to the naked eye, are responsible for the uncanny wounds on dead civilians. They are called in actuality "Cursed Spirits" and exist within the confines of Tokyo. They are born from the negative emotio-"
I slowly shake my head. The government is putting the idea of mythological creatures into the heads of civilians like candy for trick or treaters. The thousands that died in Shibuya on the night of Halloween, to put it lightly, is certainly an odd occurrence but don't go putting the idea of these fantasies into the public's head — what the hell are the higher ups thinking? The result of a cover-up this bad is certainly civil-damnation.
I didn't believe any of it, not a single word. It's an easy deterrent for a massive fuck-up by the government. A warhead accident? I'd believe it. A terrorist attack? I'd believe it. Hell even aliens have more believable backing than half the bullshit the cabinet is spouting. I leaned back into my chair and threw my hands behind my head. "How Stupid." I murmur.
Nevertheless, it's not like those odd wounds were even remotely new, they frequently appear in homicides across Japan. "It's just like—" a chill runs down my spine as a picture comes rolling back into my brain. I quickly dismiss the thought.
"Just like what, Mr. Ken?" A seductive sounding voice cuts my silence with a question.
As I glance towards the entrance, my eyes widen as I finally understand who's standing there.
A woman dressed in all black, a seemingly casual long skirt and a thick black sweater. Skin paler than the dead's, red glossy lipstick, and a sly grin written across her face to accompany those fox eyes. Mei Mei. She takes a step closer and lifts her thick three stranded braid above her left eye as if to get a better look at me. "This is you, right, Mr. Ken? I'm not so good with faces these days."
"Y-yes," I stammer. "I don't recall setting up an appointment with you, Miss Mei Mei."
"Well, you are my personal accountant. What basis do I need to visit?"
"I-I suppose that is true."
Waltzing into my cubicle like it was her own, she takes an unimpressed glance at my unorganized disaster scene with a restrained facial expression. The meticulous chaos of scattered papers and haphazard sticky notes seems to draw a subtle sigh from her, an almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of her lip. It's a rare moment of vulnerability that catches me off guard – Mei Mei, the embodiment of corporate efficiency, finding fault in the disorderly dance of my workspace. Today, however, she exudes an air of contemplation, her usual laser-focused demeanor replaced by a nuanced curiosity.
She hovers around my desk, her eyes flitting from one document to another, as if searching for some elusive detail amidst the visual cacophony. The rhythm of her footsteps echoes the drumbeat of uncertainty in my mind. What could have led her to abandon her customary efficiency and delve into the enigma of my workspace during her precious free time? It's a question that reverberates in the silence of the cubicle, heightening the intrigue of the moment.
Her odd behavior amplifies the erratic nature of my thoughts. I find myself silently questioning each nuance of her expression, attempting to decipher the mystery concealed behind her eyes. Mei Mei, who is typically all about the business, now wears an expression akin to someone unraveling a personal enigma.
She goes on to mutter something under her breath, a string of words too soft for my ears to catch completely. The cadence of her voice carries a hint of contemplation, a deviation from the usual assertiveness that defines her. And then, abruptly, she stops halfway through her commentary, as if sensing the intensity of my gaze.
Turning, her gaze locks with mine, and for a moment, the air between us seems to crackle with unspoken understanding. The corners of her mouth curve into a subtle smirk, a silent acknowledgment of our shared intrigue. In a surprising turn of events, she gracefully settles into the chair in front of my desk, her posture radiating a casual elegance that contradicts the seriousness of our surroundings.
Now seated, she returns the favor, her eyes locked onto mine. The air thickens with an unspoken tension, a silent exchange of curiosity and guarded secrets. The cubicle, once a mundane refuge, transforms into an arena of subtle power play and unspoken revelations. In the unscripted dance of our gazes, I realize that Mei Mei's intrusion into my space is more than a mere disruption – it's a calculated move, a chess piece maneuvered into an unexpected position, leaving me to grapple with the uncertainty of her motives.
I quickly turn my face towards my computer once more with a flushed face. She's fucking with me.
I can't seem to think when she's in the room; the insipid direction of my work becomes a tangled mess when her presence looms over my cubicle. It's as if the very air I breathe morphs into a dense fog, obscuring my thoughts and shrouding me in a haze of uncertainty. The meticulous calculations that once flowed seamlessly from my mind stumble and falter in her silent company. It's an inexplicable phenomenon, one that has evolved with each passing interaction.
I reflect on the evolution of our professional relationship – a connection forged solely in the realm of financial transactions and business dealings. We rarely ventured beyond the realm of numbers and spreadsheets, and our exchanges were limited to the perfunctory discussions about monetary matters. Yet, somewhere along the way, a subtle shift occurred, like a current altering the course of a river. Mei Mei's entrance into my workspace became more than a mere interruption; it transformed into a disruption of the mental equilibrium I had painstakingly maintained.
I find myself grappling with the mystery of when she became privy to this mental vulnerability. Her perceptiveness feels like an unsettling intrusion, a breach into the inner workings of my mind that I never intended to expose. The lines between our professional interactions and the uncharted territory of personal understanding blur like an indistinct boundary.
In moments like these, I ponder the possibility that Mei Mei is adept at deciphering the unspoken nuances that permeate the air. Is she reading my mind, extracting secrets that I never vocalized? Or is she merely a master of perceptive intuition, able to discern the unspoken through subtle cues and hidden expressions? The ambiguity surrounding her capabilities adds another layer of complexity to our interactions.
The unsettling feeling of being laid bare in her presence is further compounded by the realization that the truth, whatever it may be, will remain elusive. Mei Mei, with her enigmatic smile and piercing gaze, seems to revel in the knowledge that the depths of my mind are a labyrinth she can navigate at will. The uncertainty surrounding her motives and the nature of our evolving connection becomes a relentless puzzle, a riddle I'm compelled to solve but dare not unravel completely.
Trying my best to focus on my work, my eyes are completely settled on the computer screen with an almost obvious flustered look. Without even thinking about it, I kind of assume ignoring her would ease tension in the room and hopefully turn her attention somewhere else. I shouldn't have this kind of unprofessionalism on the job, I should be able to easily keep my composure in a situation like this.
"That's right, take control of the situation Jinmeiyo." I think, straightening my quivering lips once more.
It's been over two minutes since our gazes met, and the prolonged eye contact feels like an eternity. A sense of restlessness brews within me; surely, she must have found a more pressing task to occupy her time by now. With that thought, I muster enough courage to steal another glance at her face, hoping to find her attention diverted elsewhere.
To my dismay, Mei Mei remains an immovable presence, her gaze unyielding and intense. It's as if she's frozen in time, a figurine with vibrant amber eyes that pierce through the air, leaving an indelible mark on my consciousness. The passage of time seems to slow, every tick of the clock resonating with an echoing insistence.
As I muster the courage to break the silence, my mind betrays me with an unexpected realization. Mei Mei's features, her unwavering gaze and enigmatic expression, bear an uncanny resemblance to someone from my past. The familiarity jolts me again with an unexpected pang of pain, and my brain screams in agony at the haunting parallel.
"Why is she so similar to her?" The question reverberates within the confines of my mind, a desperate plea for an answer that eludes me.
"Y'know, it's all true," She says abruptly, casually resting her head onto my desk without asking and without warning. "The Shibuya Incident really was caused by those Cursed Spirits the news won't shut up about."
"Huh..?"
"I heard you listening to it before I came in."
This fucking woman.
"It's really a tragedy, the death count listed by the press isn't even half of the actual total." She sighs, unnervingly casual about such a serious statement. She counts up three fingers while speaking. "The deaths of the transfigured humans, the people devoured whole by cursed spirits, and the civilians stuck within the confines of Tokyo adding and adding to the total… It's a lot to deal with y'know. Those curses are getting really strong lately and it's tuff dealing with a lot of them on my own. Not to mention the evacuation is suuuper slow. I don't even have time to deal with the ones in other parts of Japan. It's rough being one of the only remaining Grade 1's available."
Alot to deal with..? These things she spoke of, none of them were outright stated by the press or even conspirators online, where was she getting these details from? In my freetime, I scoured the web for such things — even less morally-correct sources online — these "transfigured humans" never even popped up once. It was true Mei was rich, but no amount of money could secure this primary sourced information. Even if it was true, documentation would be so locked up deep within the government the Cabinet Research Office wouldn't see it. It had to be fiction.
Almost like she expected to see a shocked expression written across my face, her almost trademark fox grin manifested as she flipped her head up to look at me. Then she laughed. "You scared? That's a shame, exercising them is a very profitable business, not that I'm willing to show you how to start for free."
"Where did you even— No. You're messing with me right, Mei?"
Her expression didn't change even once; she didn't even blink. "Completely serious." She said almost monotone.
My brain almost sparks as I realize her unfounded truths suddenly begin to have a basis. A scene shrouded in red, an indefinite deep pit within my subconsciousness, begins to resurface in my mind. It's a haunting memory, a vivid tableau of crimson hues and visceral anguish that I had suppressed deep within the recesses of my mind. The atmosphere is thick with the acrid scent of blood, and the echo of a distant scream reverberates like a macabre symphony.
A tear, unbidden, runs down the edge of my nose as I am thrust back into the stark reality of the present. The room, once a familiar cubicle, becomes an alien landscape tainted by the spectral tendrils of a memory I had long sought to forget. Mei Mei's eyes, vibrant amber orbs that have witnessed the unraveling of my psyche, linger on me with an unsettling scrutiny.
The dodgy smile etched on her face remains unchanged, a subtle acknowledgment of the turmoil that her revelations have stirred within me. It's as if she's unraveling the threads of my carefully woven facade, exposing the raw nerve that connects me to the unresolved past.
"I could show you if you'd like, for a small price."